In the physicians’ apartment, Irenya sat alone, an apple in her hand. The effects of Aeryl’s narcotic had soaked away in the bath. Her memory had returned and the jigsaw pieces of the previous day were slotting together; the picture was grotesque. Flames around her. Heat sucking moisture from every pore. Faces watching, waiting to witness her final moments… She squeezed the untouched apple in the folds of her borrowed skirt, her body still quivering with delayed reaction.
The door opened. It was Aeryl’s husband. His voice rumbled from his chest. ‘I am Leachim irHathor, physician to the irIlketh household. I apologise for the… um… ill treatment…’
Irenya chewed the inside of her cheek and eyed the man. He wore a braided jacket and a knee-length skirt over close-fitting trousers. Through th
